by Amber Foxx
She heard a low rumble. Had he held the phone up to the cat? What a peculiar conversation. “I hear him.”
“Yeah. Bass baritone. Fuck. Just got him settled and I need to look at the van”
“Did you forget something?”
“Nah. I just—look at it. Y’know? All my stuff locked up in all night in a public parking lot. Worry a little, that’s all. That new PA. Jeezus. If somebody stole that ... Think I’ve looked at it twenty times. Bloody stupid. I used to leave my instruments locked up in it in Santa Fe all the time and trust everybody. Sorry. Telling you all this crap. But you wanted to be friends, and—fuck—I can’t say no to that. I can’t not be your friend.”
The water rose, and Mae stretched out in the tub, leaning her head against the rim, smiling up at the moon. She wanted to hug Jamie. He’d finally said what she’d always wanted to hear from him. As long as he wasn’t pressuring her for romance, she was strangely fond of the sound of his ruminations and random chatter. “Thank you, sugar. That means a lot to me.”
“I’d planned to get in touch after the tour, show you my success, sort of prove something, I guess ... Stupid. Thought it’d—don’t laugh—win you, y’know? But I’m too late. Got to settle for second place.”
“I never judged you on your money or your career. You should know that. And you’re not in second place. There’s no such place. I don’t know where I am with Stamos yet. I like him a lot. But he’s not more important than my friends. He’s not in first place.”
“You mean I’m not too late?”
“No. I mean anybody in the world would still be too early. My divorce won’t be final until April, and I’m starting to like being single.”
“Jeeezus. First I meet you and you can’t get over your fucking ex-husband and now you don’t want anyone?”
“I didn’t say that either. Stamos is giving me lots of space, though, and I like that. We’re gonna go slow and—”
“He’s old for you,” Jamie growled. “What is he, like forty or something?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t matter, sugar. It’s not like I’m having his children. We’ve had one date. Let’s not talk about him, all right? You just said you could be my friend.”
“I care what happens to you. Don’t want some older bloke using you for his trophy or something.” The chair creaked, followed shortly by the sliding sounds of the heavy hotel curtains, a pause, and the rattling slide again. He must have been looking at the van. “Fuck.” Jamie sighed. “If he makes you happy, I wish you well.”
The water crept up around her shoulders. Mae wanted to laugh, but in a way it wasn’t funny. Jamie did wish her well, but he sounded so sulky about it when he was trying to sound brave and cheerful. She pictured him opening those curtains over and over, riveted by the sight of his van with all his valuables in it, vulnerable to predators in the parking lot. That was almost funny, too, but not really. “Sugar?”
“Hm?”
“No one would break into that van. Just like they never did in Santa Fe. They’d go after something new and fancy.”
“Yeah. S’pose so. I keep blankets over everything so no one can see what’s in there.” A pause, a soft suctioning sound, a rattle of glass, and a soft thud. A hiss. He’d gotten a beer from the fridge. That would have to taste nasty right after brushing his teeth. “Wonder if I should’ve bothered with the bike. No place to ride if all my motels are on a bloody strip like this.”
She almost suggested he could drive to the good cycling places in each city, but remembered his GPS situation. He’d get lost. He liked to swim, which would be simpler. “Reckon you can swim at your hotels.”
“Yeah. I think some of ’em have indoor pools. This one doesn’t. How’s your hot spring?”
“Nice. Feels good.”
A short pause followed by a stifled belch. “Sorry. In case you heard that. Think I might sleep soon.” He yawned. “Thanks for letting me yabber at you.”
“It was good to talk with you.” She turned off the spigot. As the rushing water stopped, the night became still except for the rattling of the leaves. No other sounds. “I’m glad you want us to be friends.”
“Nah. Want us to be lovers. Want to be in that hot spring with you, melting your bones. I’m a better match for you than bloody Zeus and you know it. But—I’ll be your friend.”
Mae was grateful she was in the hot spring relaxing, or she might have been even more frustrated with Jamie. How could he be so accepting and then bounce right back into this? “Then please, don’t keep reminding me it’s not what you want.”
“Bloody hell. Can’t be your friend if I’m not honest. You don’t fucking want me to tell the truth.”
Before she could answer, he hung up on her.
Mae sighed, turned off her phone, and set it on the pump housing. If she kept the phone on and answered, Jamie could start all over. Apology, humor, drama, round and round. It would have been nice if he could have handled friendship. They’d both wanted to try, but they were back to square one. She had to let him go for tonight.
Chapter Four
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What have I done?
He was never going to get to sleep now. Jamie tried calling Mae back three times. No answer. Too confused to even leave a message, he pitched his phone onto the bed and stared at it. How could he be such an idiot? He’d finally seen her again and fucked up not once but over and over.
With a sigh of regret, he took the phone off the bed, set it on the bedside table—right side, had to be on the right, and it had to be on. One last time, he paced across the bedroom and opened the curtains and looked out at the van. Mae was probably right. No one would break into the Aerostar. He closed the curtains.
Now what? And after all that sugar and a beer, he should be drugged. He’d gotten sort of sleepy and relaxed talking to Mae, until he lost it. It didn’t take much to set him off. Trying again to get sleepy, he took a hot shower, brushed his hair, and brushed Gasser with a special cat brush.
Poor thing was dirty. Jamie had noticed on the drive from Santa Fe that Gasser was too big to wash himself without falling over, and couldn’t reach his whole body with his tongue. Cats liked to be clean.
Jamie filled the tub and dipped Gasser in cautiously. Ears back, the cat took it with an unhappy calm that his owner interpreted as gratitude and humility. It could be embarrassing to need help, but it felt good to give it. Jamie should have let Mae give him the GPS. Not that he could figure out how to use it, but it would have made her feel good. Too late now. He finished Gasser’s bath and dried him with the hair drier on low heat. The cat looked funny damp, and even funnier with his fur blowing around, but he seemed to like the drying.
Time to try for sleep. The unpleasantly bright red numbers on the clock by the bed said it was two in the morning. Had he kept Mae up that late? Groomed Gasser for an hour? He didn’t know. Time had a way of its own. It just vanished.
He pulled back the sheets and blanket and looked deep into the linen cave where his toes would go. No spiders, no scorpions. None under each pillow. No bedbugs under the mattress cover. The blanket was peculiar, thick beige fuzz as though someone had made it by skinning teddy bears. Jamie felt it. Not bad. It could stay. The clock would have to go, though. He unplugged it and called the front desk for a late wake-up call. It wouldn’t take long to get to El Paso, but it might take hours to actually sleep.
One lamp would be enough to sleep by. He turned off the other lights, double-checked the lock, and brought Gasser and a book to bed. As soon as he began to read, a great suck of fatigue grabbed him, and he set the book aside aside and closed his eyes. Sleep. Yes. No. Thoughts stormed into the empty space behind his eyes. Fucking up with Mae. Someone breaking into the van.
Turning onto his back, Jamie pulled Gasser onto his belly and stroked the cat. Gasser laid a soft, claw-less paw against Jamie’s cheek, a strangely human gesture. The exhaustion came back. Best idea he’d ever had, getting Gasser. Something he’d done right. He fell asleep.
When he pulled up at Locally Loco Brew Pub to set up for the evening’s show, a sharp-faced little woman in her mid to late twenties, with straight dark hair and narrow shoulders, came out and helped him unload and set up. She reminded Jamie of a weasel or a ferret.
“We’ve had a lot of big names here,” she said with a Texas twang, carrying the compact sound tower into the pub while Jamie managed the five-foot didgeridoo. Another employee held the door open, and the little ferret woman walked right under the man’s arm. Jamie wondered about this big bloke just standing there while the ninety-eight-pound woman carried things. “We’ve even had Joe Wayne Brazos.”
Jamie tried looking impressed, but the effort struck him as funny and he gave up. “Sorry, never heard of him.”
“Come on.” The ferret planted the PA right where she was and stopped and stared at Jamie. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nah. Really haven’t. Is he country?”
“Of course. You’re the first act Dabney’s ever booked here that isn’t.”
“Sorry. Hope you don’t mind that.” Jamie offered her a smile. She hadn’t smiled at him once yet. “Not into country.”
They set his things on the stage and she followed him back out to his van. He unloaded three drums, handed her one of them and his flute cases, and lugged up the other two drums. As they reentered the semi-dark, beer-sweet pub, she asked, “So what kind of music do you listen to?” As if she were asking if he ate worms.
“Opera. Classical. Ethnic. Jazz. Blues. Cajun. Klezmer.” He paused, hoping to get a laugh. “Birds.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t know what you’re missing.” After setting the instruments down, she examined his solo sound system, plugged it in, and seemed poised to make adjustments. “You should listen to Joe Wayne.”
“Thanks, but—look, I need to warm up and—don’t mess with the sound. I don’t need what you might think.” She gave him a squinting, up-and-down look like an inspector. Did he have crumbs in his beard? Cat hair on his pants? Or did he need to explain himself? More likely it was that. “Trained voice.”
She snapped her head around as if he’d insulted her and walked off, swinging her hard little hips in her short black skirt. Sorry-looking little weasel. He had no idea why he had annoyed her.
To his relief, once the show started, she vanished into the crowd.
Jamie flowed from ballads and blues to sweet reflective shakuhachi flute, to fast songs with drums where the words hardly mattered. In the promotion for Austin, Wendy had encouraged local drummers to bring their instruments and play with him: the first five would get free Jangarrai CDs. Jamie sang, played the woodwinds, then didgeridoo, layering melodies or rhythms and drones over the drumming. People danced and whooped. Flying on the energy of the crowd during his final song, Jamie danced solo on the stage for an ecstatic moment while the others drummed, and then picked up his flute for a finale with the drummers.
Buoyant, delighted, on top of the world, Jamie applauded his audience at the end and they cheered him. The owner, a wiry, curly-haired man named Dabney, bought him a Locally Loco chocolate stout, quietly thanking Jamie for bringing something new to his bar and getting them out of the cowboy rut. The bartender put some swing music on, and Jamie danced with women from the audience, knowing with a wild exuberant heart that he was the life of the party. Someone—maybe Dabney, Jamie never saw—kept refilling his mug. It was like a bottomless beer. He drank whatever he found in his glass, and danced until he could hardly walk.
“Are you out of your mind?” The same plump black girl with pink eye shadow who’d been there when he’d stumbled in the night before was working the front desk at six a.m. She processed his payment with ferocious pressure on the pen and her computer keys, her ringing voice carrying into the breakfast nook, making people turn and stare. “You had three hours sleep. You could still be drunk. You can’t drive.”
“Have to. Got a long trip.” Gasser weighing down one arm and his overnight bag in the other, Jamie pushed the front door open with his shoulder. “Thanks for looking out for me, though. I’ll be all right.”
He had to look for the van, and found it in the parking lot at the back of the hotel, where the person who’d driven for him, whoever that was, had parked it. The lot must have been full last night. This was an out-of-the-way spot, near a high cinderblock wall, some shrubs, and a dumpster. He opened the passenger door to place Gasser on his riding nest in Jamie’s sweatshirt. It was so full of orange hair it was beginning to look like a flattened second cat. “Wait here, mate. Getting coffee.”
When Jamie returned to the lobby to fill a cup, the clerk picked right up where she’d left off.
“No, you won’t be all right. People fall asleep at the wheel. What’s your next stop?”
“Memphis.” He sipped the coffee and topped it off again before adding the lid. “Figured I’d make sure I get there, then take a nap before the show.”
“If you make it.” She looked serious. “You look like—”
“Road kill?” He laughed at his own joke.
“It’s not funny. You are still drunk.” The worry in her eyes, and the unsteadiness in his body and his mind sank in. “You could kill yourself.” If only she knew. “And your cat.”
Not that. Not Gasser. “You’re right. I’m ... I’m not thinking straight.” He felt drained and disoriented. Maybe another couple of hours would be good. Sleep deprivation made him worse at directions and more likely to panic, even with Gasser to calm him down, and he didn’t want to drive drunk. He could still get to Memphis by nine at night, even if he didn’t get to his hotel first.
Leaving his luggage in the van, he took Gasser out and carried the cat up to his room, trailed by the desk clerk’s resounding reminder to be out by eleven.
When Jamie awakened again, his hangover felt like trash blown around in the wind, like dirt that blew under the door, and made him want to crawl under the sheets again. The smell of coffee made him think it was morning, but the light was wrong. He sat up sharply. That smell was the stale, cold coffee from this morning he’d never drunk.
Adrenaline pumping, he put his shoes on, grabbed the coffee and drank it like medicine. It had better not be past eleven—he’d be charged for another day. He lifted Gasser and started for the door. Urgency shifted to horror when he looked at the clock. Five p.m. He would miss his own show.
Wendy sounded more incredulous than angry at first. “You slept for eleven hours?”
Jamie sat in the front of the van, staring ahead at the blank concrete wall. The smell of the dumpster made him sicker than he already was. “Yeah. I fucked up.”
“How could you sleep that long? Didn’t housekeeping or the front desk wake you up?”
“Thought I set the alarm. Guess I didn’t. Somebody kept buying me drinks last night, I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.” He looked down at the great spread of Gasser on the passenger seat, moved his overnight bag off of Gasser’s food dish on the floor. “I got so bloody rotten I still couldn’t drive in the morning. Fuck. Just shoot me.”
“That’s not like you.” Irritation crept into her voice. “At least I didn’t think it was.”
“Only once a month or so.” Usually at the worst possible time. Some kind of death wish idiocy. “Won’t do it again on this trip. Promise. Feel like bloody crap about it.”
“I have to see if I can reschedule you. Memphis is out of the way on your way back, and this venue might not have an open slot in their schedule.”
Seeking comfort, Jamie picked up Gasser and hugged him with his free arm. Gasser made a soft squawk and scrambled his legs in the air as he dangled with his back against Jamie’s stomach. “Sorry, mate.” Pausing in conversation, Jamie adjusted the cat to a better position, but it took two arms to hold him properly and he had to lean his head down to the phone. The contact with the big warm cat was moderately reassuring, but didn’t erase Jamie’s guilt and distress. “I’m in Asheville Monday, right?”
“Yes. I’ll get you a motel halfway and call you back. If you ever do this again, I’m done with you. You understand? I want to manage your career, not your screw-ups. I care about you and I think you’re a genius, but I’m not risking my reputation on someone who gets drunk and misses a show.”
I-35, getting dark. The next road should be I-40. What, he wondered, did truckers do to stay sane? The radio reception faded to crackling in the middle of a favorite concerto and all he could find after that was country. With his mind so full of miserable crap, the last thing he needed was that whining music. He turned it off.
Where in hell was I-40? He was sure he had memorized the route. It was simple, I-40 all the way, a guilt trip straight through Memphis to Asheville. If he could find the exit. Crossing the Oklahoma border made him uneasy. He didn’t think that state was even en route to North Carolina. No, no—the next road was I-20, not I-40. He’d skipped a step.
Mentally beating himself with a big stick, he pulled off at an Oklahoma welcome center with picnic tables framed by metal tipi poles like the skeletons of a lost tribe’s homes. It was deserted, after hours, and only the restrooms were open. No one to give directions. Bloody idiot. Fucked up again.